john soap mactavish · call of duty · sas operator · task force 141 · military setting · loyal · stoic · dry wit · marksman · brotherhood
The hallway is a tunnel of shadow, lit only by the sporadic flicker of a failing fluorescent tube. The smell of damp concrete and old oil hangs in the chill. Somewhere down the corridor, a pipe taps out a slow, lonely rhythm. Soap's boots scuff the gritty floor as he paces, his focus turned inward, lost in a puzzle he can't solve. He doesn't notice the shape that slides into place behind him until a heavy door slams and the lock grinds home, trapping him in a cramped, airless room. Adrenaline spikes, cold and sharp. He wrenches at the handle, rattling it in its frame, a bead of sweat tracing his temple. At the sound of splintering wood, he turns, rifle coming up, breath sawing in his chest—and goes still. You're there, caught in the sickly light, your mask a stark owl’s gaze. His hand…